Morning Star
by Xule
Summary: The Gravedigger has a guest. **Linked to 'The First Bird'** Rating may change as I go on. Nothing explicit yet. PLEASE R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_NOTE: This story is linked to 'The First Bird'. There will be references to my other story in this fic, so please take some time to read/skim through that first._

_Also, I'm sorry it took me so long to start upping this; I really have no excuse, aside from simply drawing an inspirational blank._

* * *

><p>The Gravedigger was tiring and the amber glow of the setting sun diminishing to a bloody red when the rider came up the hill. Mounted atop an immense black draught horse, the hunched figure seemed like that of a child, but as it approached at a panicked gallop all soon saw that it was more likely a young man, thin and starved, with a ragged black cloak pulled tight about himself, a dented claymore lashed to his back, and stuck with five long quarrels.<p>

The horse itself had been struck too; in its hindquarters and once again just above its withers, but he was in far better shape than his master. The Gravedigger, being the closest at hand, hurried over as quickly as his bad leg would carry him, only to have the animal snap at him, ears pressed hard against his head.

"Shhhh. Hush now." He urged, raising a hand to stroke the enraged animal. The horse jumped away from his outstretched arm and reared. The Gravedigger swore, seeing the rider tilt dangerously for a moment before sliding out of the saddle.

An older brother caught the boy and was knocked to the ground himself as he did so. The Gravedigger pulled the spindly figure off the old mummer and laid him on the ground. His superior pressed his fingers to the lad's throat.

"He dead?" The Gravedigger's voice sounded harsher than he had meant it to. It always sounded harsh.

"Very much alive, surprisingly." The old man laughed with relief. "The boy has some fight in him."

The Gravedigger shouldered his burden wordlessly and marched him up to one of the vacant chambers in the crumbling monastery. There he laid the boy down gently and stood waiting for Elder Brother. He was not waiting long before the wise old mummer hurried in and gently closed the door behind him. The older man sighed at the sight of the boy and turned to The Gravedigger.

"Thank you, Sandor." He said softly. "You may go now, I shall attend to him."

"No M'Lord." Sandor replied flatly. "I think it best that I stay. You never know what sort could wash up around these parts."

Elder Brother considered him briefly before nodding. "Thank you Sandor."

The mummer laid a hand on the boy's brow and frowned, then proceeded to test each of the arrows embedded in his flesh; three in the torso, one in the right shoulder and one in the left calf. He chuckled. Sandor scowled at him. "What is it?"

"This boy is unfathomably lucky." The septon answered. "He has three arrows in his body; one to the side of his stomach, not nearly in far enough to hit his intestines, one stuck just under his collarbone and this one –" He tapped the centremost quarrel gently. "- should have killed him, but instead it was blocked by his breastbone. They shot him once in the leg, in a place mostly composed of fat and once in the right shoulder, which should have disarmed him but –" He turned the boy's hands. Both were blistered and bloody from wielding the heavy sword without gloves, the leading hand more so than the other. "- he's left-handed!"

"Whoever did this wasn't a very experienced archer."

"No indeed, thank the gods." The Septon agreed, giggling with delight. "We may not have to bury another boy today."

* * *

><p>Sandor watched as Elder Brother gently eased the boy's boots off him, followed by his sword belt. He lifted the boy daintily as the elder pulled the large sword out from behind the lad's back. When he laid their patient back down the cloak that had previously been held in place by the thick leather sword belt slipped away from the boy's figure. Elder Brother gave a small gasp, Sandor laughed.<p>

This was no boy.

Beneath the torn cloak, she was garbed in a belted red silk tunic with a loose neck that revealed a black leather vest, red breeches and black boots. Her clothing bore no emblem, nor did she have anything that revealed her allegiance to any house. The woman herself was beautiful; Sandor could see that plainly enough (and so too could Elder Brother, judging by the way he blushed). She had the fair skin and delicate features of a well-bred lady, coupled with a long mane of brown hair, plaited securely behind her back. Looking at her, Sandor was vaguely reminded of a young lady he had once met, one that sang sweet little songs and never forgot her courtesies.

Elder Brother's hands trembled visibly as he worked on the unconscious woman. It amused Sandor to see such a pious man so visibly torn between duty and sin. Still, he worked deftly enough, removing the arrows with relative ease before filling the wounds with a sour-smelling poultice. Sandor noticed how loathe he was to remove her clothing, a task he accomplished well enough. Until it came to the last arrow.

The mummer eyed the long shaft protruding from between the woman's breasts with a forlorn look. He had sworn oaths, performed ceremonies and maintained a celibate lifestyle for decades since the Trident. Looking upon a pair of exposed breasts would never undo all that, but as Sandor watched he noted that the old man's eyes flicked to the fullness of the woman's teats – only for a second – with apparent desire. _That_ could very easily be his undoing, Sandor knew. He laid a heavy hand on Elder Brother's shoulder.

"I'll do that." He told him gruffly.

"You don't have to…"

"Yes I do." Sandor patted the septon almost kindly. "I took no vows, I prayed to no gods. A bit of lust won't undo any of my efforts." _Because my will is my own_, he wanted to add. No. The Hound wanted to add. _I have no need for your mummer's charms_.

Elder Brother nodded. "I-I'll be outside if you need me."

Sandor gave a gruff laugh. "No peeking."

* * *

><p>Sandor knelt by the bed and took a good look at the woman before him before proceeding. <em>There's a pretty<em>. The Hound's ghost muttered in his ear. _Think of what you could do to her while she's –_

Sandor shook his head. "Bugger me."

Carefully, Sandor undid the metal hooks securing her vest. The arrow had slipped its way between two of them to penetrate her chest, tearing the tough black leather only slightly. When he finally unclipped the last of them he took in a deep, steady breath to keep the Hound down and slipped the hide away.

Despite his efforts, a licentious grin crept across his mouth at the sight of her exposed flesh. Her breasts were smooth and plump, with small pink nipples, her stomach flat and white and the tops of her curving hips were seamless and bore no traces of childbearing. He wanted to touch that flesh, to cup it, to watch it turn pink as he –

She moved. Seven hells she moved. Sandor snapped his head around to find two great blue orbs staring inquisitively at him. She didn't try to sit up or hit him, and Sandor quickly acknowledged that she was too weak. Shame sloshed about in his gut. He licked his lips nervously.

"I uh.." He plucked at the feathers adorning the remaining quarrel. "Y-you're hurt, I'm just taking out this arrow." _Just_ the Hound mocked.

She made no response, but moved her good hand up to her chest, probing the arrow languidly. _She doesn't realise what's going on. She's in shock._ Sandor tried to give her a reassuring smile. "It's alright. You're safe now."

Her hand dropped weakly away from the wound, but she kept her eyes on him, unable to do anything else. Sandor nodded and gently grasped the shaft, drawing it out as steadily and painlessly as possible. The woman only grimaced at first, but eventually cried out in pain as the metal head of the arrow tore through her once again. Sandor hushed her and stroked her hair as he applied a generous amount of the mummer's covering to the wound, surprised by his own gentleness. _Stay down Hound, stay down._


	2. Chapter 2

Elder Brother returned shortly and gave their guest some milk of the poppy. She drifted into a peaceful sleep almost immediately. Sandor watched her chest heave up and down with her breathing, remembering what lay beneath the blankets.

"We should leave her." Elder Brother chimed in. "She needs to rest. In the morning I shall have some questions for her, but until then I do not want her disturbed save with food and drink as she needs it."

"Aye." Sandor agreed, his eyes drinking her in.

"Check in on her every few hours, Brother." His superior instructed. "Be sure she is comfortable."

Sandor stirred. "_Me?"_

"You must put The Hound aside, Sandor." The monk told him. "The only way to do so is to face temptation – and defeat it."

"You didn't seem so strong in the face of temptation yourself." The Hound shot back.

"That is why I remain here." The other man replied, nodding. "If you ever want to be a free man again, you must be stronger than I."

Sandor kept the Hound at bay and nodded. "I'll check in on her."

* * *

><p>Everyone that died on the Quiet Isle was buried in the monastery grounds. It was a place for outcasts, sinners and those who sought to repent. If they died while still undergoing penance they were considered unfit to sully the burying grounds of the common people. They had no proper funeral, were not embalmed or dressed for the occasion, but simply dropped into a hole and covered over. Sandor had buried seven men in his three years with the Faceless Men, and often wondered when he would be tossed down a ditch himself. It was a dark mode of thought, and he liked it little, but found solace in the knowledge that The Hound would never haunt innocents in death as he had in life.<p>

As he finished Brother Mikael's plot, his thoughts strolled down the lane of memory. He remembered the faces of everyone he had killed or wronged; he had been forced to as a part of his contrition, and now their faces swam about in his mind, forever reminding him of why he had come to this forsaken place. He apologised to them all, one by one, and named them if he could. Every time he finished this ritual, his mind would turn to those that had been butchered by The Hound at the Saltpans. Sure, he had not been there, but The Hound's spirit thrived in every act committed by the man wearing the snarling dog's head. He could not see their faces, but he apologised to all of The Hound's victims there as well.

At first he had thought about killing the man that had framed him. _When I leave this place_, he would say to himself, _he will pay. Pay for ruining my name further. _He soon learned that such thoughts were also a part of The Hound, who wanted justice for taking Gregor's death away from him. Such things did Sandor no good, so he dismissed all notion of them. Of course, such dreams still invaded his thoughts, but he no longer indulged in them. _Down Hound, stay down._

Now, as he dropped his brother's body down into the dirt, he found himself once again thinking of the Butcher of the Saltpans, and wondering if he was really so different from him. His mind was buzzing with all that he could have done to that woman, prone as she was: did it really matter that he had restrained himself? _A decent man would not even think of such things._ Just like that night, when he had entered the Little Bird's room. Did it really matter that he had not harmed her? He almost did, despite the fact that he had not meant to, and that was all that mattered. He was as corrupt as the Butcher and Gregor alike. That was why he needed to remain on the Quiet Isle.

* * *

><p>Someone had lit a candle for their guest while he had been working. She lay with her back to him, the warm light adding a coppery sheen to her lush tresses. She turned as he shut the door, eyes wide and enquiring. Sandor took the flaming candle and used it to light the sconces, hoping she didn't see how his hands trembled. He still hated fire, no matter how hard he prayed. Her eyes followed him around the room; he could feel them boring into his back. When he turned she was sitting up, looking comfortable, like it hurt to simply it in a bed.<p>

"You came galloping up the hill." He began awkwardly. "When we saw you were hurt one of the brothers and I took you up here. You should be fine now. Though you'll have scars."

She examined him silently for a moment. Sandor felt like an animal caught in a trap; there was something about her that made him uneasy. _Stop looking at me like that, wench! _Hush, Hound, Hush.

"This is the Quiet Isle?" She said at length, her voice soft and drawling. Sandor wondered if the milk of the poppy had really worn off.

"Yes." He replied.

"I was trying to get here." Her voice seemed disembodied and mindless, like a child reciting lines. "It's very tricky, what with the tides."

It was true; the Quiet Isle was not an Isle all the time; when the tide went out it drew the waters away from a little spit of land that connected the monastery and its grounds to the mainland. Travellers that could not secure a boat opted for this route, but often had to wait several nights before the water level fell enough. Sandor presumed that his guest must have been waylaid while waiting for such an opportunity.

"You shouldn't have waited around the shore, girl." He grumbled. "There's unsavoury folk that patrol the lakeside. You're lucky you're still alive."

"I didn't know." She mumbled. "I haven't been here in years."

"The Saltpans?"

"Westeros."

"Oh." Sandor raised his eyebrow. "Where'd you come from?"

"Braavos."

"What for?"

"I was looking for someone."

"Did you find them?"

She bit her lip, her expression changing for the first time since he had started speaking with her. She looked sad. Sandor found he cared more than he had anticipated.

"…No." The word came as a whisper.

"That's the way things are here, girl." Sandor's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I'm sorry to say it, but in these times people go missing without word and never return. You were better off in Braavos."

She pursed her lips and Sandor thought she might cry. It made his heart sink in empathy, a sensation he was unfamiliar with. He stood up abruptly and made for the door. The latch clanged under his heavy hand, smashing through the heavy silence that had descended upon them. Sandor looked back and sure enough she was still sitting there, watching him.

"I'll send someone up with your supper." He said. "Get some rest."

He darted out the door and hurried down the dark corridor, not stopping until he reached the head of the narrow stairway that lead to the kitchen. There he leant against the wall and frowned at the pale stars that peeked in at him through a narrow window.

_Seven hells I can't stand that gaze._ Sandor shook himself and inhaled deeply. _What is it that unmans me _so? He did not realise it, but there was something uncannily familiar buried in the depths of the woman's eyes. There lay the shadow of a time he had sought to forget. A time before his hopes had turned to ashes.


	3. Chapter 3

He had been avoiding her for nigh on a week. At first Elder Brother had berated Sandor's neglect of their patient, but it was not long before he sensed his brother's discomfort in her presence. He had excused Sandor, and assigned him a more rigorous schedule that kept his mind off his vices. Still, Sandor found that his thoughts turned to her more often than he liked. He was suspicious of her, a weariness prompted by the unsettling feeling she gave him initially, and fuelled by her flimsy excuse for a story.

The girl had been travelling from Braavos to Westeros in search of someone. That someone's identity, their appearance and their whereabouts were unknown to her, so she said. It seemed plain to Sandor that she did not want her business known. When he mentioned this to Elder Brother, the monk simply shrugged and stated that "It's none of our business, should a person wish to withhold their intentions from us that is their prerogative." He laid a gnarled hand against Sandor's back. "This is not King's Landing, Brother. You will find no vipers here."

_But there are rats_. Sandor's quill hovered absent-mindedly over a broad sheet of vellum, ink blotting freely and sinking slowly into the paper, ruining his mediocre penmanship. There was no doubt in his head that the brothers were too trusting; he had seen tens of ingrates take advantage of their hospitality over the years. People made away with books, crockery, jewellery and personal possessions fairly regularly, yet the monks still asked very little of their guests. It was their belief that indulging in suspicion only gave rise to the sort of emotions that they sought to cleanse themselves of. _It's just common sense._ Sandor told himself. _If you're not careful people will take advantage of you. Gods these hermits can be so stupid. As if the gods care! We all die and rot alike- _Sandor shook himself, pressing a sweaty hand to his brow as he felt the Hound rousing. _Down man - down! I'll have none of you._

Another brother tapped his elbow, rousing Sandor and sending the Hound scurrying away. The old man pointed to his pen and the ruination that was the verse he had been copying. Sandor made a sharp hissing noise; a new habit he had adopted to stop himself from swearing in front of the monks, and crumpled up the entire page. There was no undoing it. Once ink sank into vellum it stayed there. Sandor drew a clean sheet from the desk drawer and began again: _A crone bent and wizened_…

Sandor hated any work that allowed his thoughts to run away with him. It was only on rare occasions and upon the express request of another brother that he troubled himself with the copying or reading of scripture. He was happiest when his back hurt and his palms blistered, it reminded him of times past without allowing him to yearn for his old habits. What was more, it kept his thoughts silent and the Hound at bay.

* * *

><p>He awoke early one morning, before the sun had risen. He was covered in cold perspiration and shaking at the memory of his dream. He had imagined a woman with flaming hair bending over him; it took him a moment to realise that she was mounting him, writhing and laughing as she took him. He felt weak and sick, worst of all he could not move. Even as she drained his life force Sandor could only lie helpless beneath her, cursing this faceless Succubus. His anger rose as her laughter reached fever-pitch. He would kill her. He fought against his body, commanding it to move, but it disobeyed him. She laughed still. He found his voice and spewed out a string of curses, hoping to find strength in his words. It was useless. He could feel himself fading. As he teetered between life and death a shadow loomed darker than the enclosing night. A great hound wreathed in shadows took form behind his assailant. Its eyes blazed as it snarled and gnashed its teeth. Sandor felt its fury filling him and at once found his strength he reached up with both hands and found the woman's neck –<p>

He threw cold water over his face, hoping to douse the desire that burned through him. He could feel his need pressing uncomfortably against his linens. Sandor sat on the bed and inhaled deeply. It was no use, he could not calm himself. Reluctantly, he took the situation into his hands, relieving himself silently. He washed quickly afterward and changed into his robes. Sandor could feel the Hound looming at the edge of his conscious mind; he had to do something about that. Only hard labour would help him now.

He edged quietly into the dim hall. A cold grey light filtered in through one of the narrow windows as the wind shook its panes. In the thin shaft of light that painted the floor, Sandor could see its lattices magnified fivefold, along with the sheets of rain that ran down its façade. He would dig no graves today. Instead, Sandor descended the western stairwell. It had been a long time since he had cleaned the great library, a place that Sandor had used as a refuge when he had first arrived at the monastery. Aside from towering shelves of books, the library also contained many hidden rooms and secret studies falling into varying levels of disuse. It was a labyrinth of discoveries and a maze of things that needed cleaning, rearranging and in some of the worst cases, burning.

* * *

><p>The clouds had rolled away and the sun was making a feeble attempt to warm the Lonely Isle before sailing into other skies by the time Sandor had finished cleaning the lower chamber of the library; a dark catacomb of towering drawers stuffed with crumbling scrolls, seldom used and never for long. There were things down there, they said. The older monks did not often allow their feeling to overcome them, yet at mention of those dark passages even the sternest face became a mask of horror. There were rumours of ghouls that stalked the aisles, poised to snatch the life out of whomever they met. So far, they had not met Sandor, and he doubted they would. Monks or no, his companions were still old men, and old men like to tell stories. Sandor was too old to take them at face value.<p>

Still, it was a relief to be out of that dusty hole. Sandor swung a satchel stuffed with unsalvageable papers down onto the hearth and reached over the towering stone mantel for a large tinder box. He shredded the sheets and sprinkled the remnants over the dry branches draped over a heap of turf briquettes. The kindling was slow, but soon he had a roaring fire drenching the cavernous reading room in warmth and a merry red glow. Sandor took up his broom and set to work.

Someone entered as he was sweeping. Sandor took no notice; monks liked to be left alone when they read, a preference he revered consistently. He made his way slowly and carefully around the room, collecting a fresh pile of papers with his brush and ushering to their doom. The fire was still burning contentedly in its seat but Sandor still began to feed the pages to the flames carefully. He trembled as he did so; he hated fire. It reminded him of the horrors of his past life, of Gregor picking him up like a rag doll and mutilating his face, of the pain that enveloped his very being as hungry tongues licked as his face, melting the flesh away, gnawing at his bones. If he was not careful around fire the Hound would stir, but facing his fear fixed another nail into the coffin of his unwanted partner. Sandor gritted his teeth and offered another shower of shreds to the flames.

* * *

><p>Something shot into the fire. Sandor jumped back further than a grown man should have only to see a small paper bird* dissolve into nothingness. It was quickly followed by another, which hit the mantel and flopped pathetically to the floor with its beak broken.<p>

He turned to find the woman sitting on one of the long wooden benches, a pile of books by her right hand and a scroll of parchment by her left. She smiled sweetly. "Sorry to startle you. I got some blots on those pages."

Sandor nodded and kept his eyes fixed on the floor. He breathed steadily, urging himself not to evoke the Hound by succumbing to fear. He raised his eyes slowly and saw that his visitor had already returned to her book. She was copying some of the passages, seemingly oblivious of him. He cleared his throat and she looked up. "Is it common to throw papers on the floor where you come from?" He tried to sound light-hearted, which made his voice sound surreal and detached; it was an unfamiliar practice.

The woman shook her head. "I thought they would both make it into the fire."

Sandor's mouth curled. "Well I'll thank you not to disrespect me, _M'Lady_." The Hound's voice wriggled out of his unwilling mouth. "Pick it up."

"Ask politely." She replied, frowning.

Sandor took a deep breath, pushing his lodger back. "Could you please dispose of it properly?"

"Certainly." She got up immediately and advanced toward him. Sandor had not thought this through; in a few steps she was directly in front of him, looking right into his face, or rather, his bandages.

"Can I ask you something?" She ventured.

He coughed uncomfortably and nodded.

"How does a man come to condemn himself to such a place as this?"

Sandor shifted awkwardly. "I was lost. When I came here, Elder Brother offered me the chance to set myself on the right path."

"The right path?"

"I was angry. I hurt people. I killed people. My life was a mess." Sandor sighed. "I needed to change my ways or I'd be miserable forever."

The woman bent down and picked up the bird. She let it drift lazily into the flames before speaking. "I don't see how this dark fort could abate anyone's misery."

"Why do _you _stay here, then?" Sandor shot back.

"My shoulder still hasn't healed properly." She retorted.

"Bullshit." Sandor scoffed. "You're staying here for a reason. You're either hiding from something or waiting for something. Which is it? What did you do on the outside that had those men out for your blood? What do you want from these old men? Are you waiting for them to turn their backs so you can rob them for all they've got left?"

"I'll have none of that!" She stood up straight, her eyes blazing. "I sailed from Braavos looking for someone."

"Who?"

"An old friend!"

"What's your friend's name then?"

"None of your business!"

"That's a funny name!"

"Listen you!" She squared up to him, fists clenched. "I've done nothing to be ashamed of, and I don't like being told off by someone who seems to have a _lot_ of penance to do. You're probably one of that boy king's men! One of the baby killers or rapers that got a bit scared when things started turning around for the Lannisters. You're just hiding from what you've done, denying what you are!"

"Am I?" Sandor was thoroughly riled. Without thinking about the consequences, he reached up and loosened the bandages wrapped around his head, letting them fall enough to reveal his face. "Take a good look, girl! I have to look at it every day! And every day it reminds me of what I am. I got more demons than most men, and I've done things I regretted because of them, but I'm here to set things right. Think what you want, but I've put the Hound to rest, and I'm glad."

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Sandor immediately regretted his actions and could only watch in silence as she slowly backed away from him.

_She recognises me._ He realised. _Gods, what must I have done to her? She'll tell the countrymen and I'll be dead for sure._

The woman turned on her heel and fled the room, leaving her books and notes scattered across the table and bench. Sandor fixed his dressings and returned to his duty. The Hound would have done something rash; he would have fled the monastery or killed her, but Sandor Clegane would accept his fate and vouch for his sins. He was afraid of dying, that was true enough, but he thought of becoming the Hound again terrified him to the marrow of his bones.

*I doubt Westeros has aeroplanes.


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor had not seen the girl for weeks before she approached him again. He was digging in yet another grave, with his robes drawn tight against the sharp evening air. His breath puffed out in little wisps of condensation even through the fabric covering his mouth.

"You're the Hound." Her voice struck him from behind.

Sandor stood up straight and stretched. "I was."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I've put all that behind me."

"Are you sure?"

He grunted in dissatisfaction. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You still seem very… Hound-like."

"And how exactly do you know what it is to be 'Hound-like'?"

"You've got a reputation."

"Had." He corrected her. "I _had_ a reputation. One I don't intend on upholding. Besides, reputations don't tell you nothing."

"They tell plenty." She shot back. "Especially one as _colourful _as yours."

He chuckled coarsely. "And what do you mean by that?"

"There are hundreds of stories about you."

"Don't go believing in fairy tales, girl, they'll do you no good."

"They're not fairy tales."

"And you know that, do you?"

"Yes."

"Alright then." He sighed, then, turning around and leaning on his shovel, he asked what was gnawing at his mind. "What did I do to you? Huh? What do you want me to confess to? Did I kill your father or your brother? Rape your mother or your sister? Or you? Maybe it wasn't me… there are plenty who would have me account for Gregor's sins as well. If he had anything to do with you, then I'll tell you honestly that I'm sorry my sack-of-scum brother was ever born. But I won't bring up my sins; I've worked too hard to bury them."

"How is that a good thing?" She challenged.

He leered at her and said nothing.

"If you bury your sins, you're not making a very good shot at redemption." She laughed mockingly. "You're just hiding from your responsibilities."

"What responsibilities?" He sneered. She was waking the Hound. He could feel the malice of his other half stirring in his chest.

"Your responsibilities to the people you've wronged!" She spat. "If you hide from what you've done, that's as good as saying you don't think there's anything the matter with your actions. You're just sticking your head in the sand!"

He blinked. "I – what?"

She huffed exasperatedly. "It's a saying we have in the east. You stick your head in the sand to hide from what you don't want to see or hear. It's a cowardly thing to do."

He groped the handle of the shovel thoughtfully, the Hound's eyes blazing behind his own. "Be careful who you call a coward, woman. You cannot fathom all that I've seen."

"All that you've wrought, you mean!" She stood up, a light flickering in her eyes.

"I didn't cause all of it!" Sandor could not help getting defensive; he remembered all the times he had been a victim, all the times he had witnessed or been caught up in things he would have preferred to walk away from. It was not his place to challenge such things. He was a vassal, sworn to Lannister. When Lord Tywin, Queen Cersei or that little brat Joffrey said "Jump!" he would say "How high?" or lose his head. He did not have the luxury of choice. "You may think that, after whatever I did to you, but I was a pawn. If I did not obey my lords I would lose my lands, my title, perhaps even my life. Things are a lot more complicated than you foreigners and commoners think!"

"And a lot less noble." She hissed.

He spat. "What do you know of nobility, girl? The things your mother read you were all fanciful, none of them were true. The noble crush the weak, they don't protect them. Their dogs are bred to savage the people, not guard them. A dog that bites the hand that feeds is put down and replaced by a more obedient bloodhound. The world is constructed for those who sit on the high seats, not the people whose shoulders they walk on."

* * *

><p>The woman had had enough; she rolled her eyes and marched back to the keep. Somehow, the sight of her storming away enraged him more than her arrogant accusations. The Hound made after her. Within a few strides he came up behind her and slammed a meaty hand down on her shoulder. She writhed and knocked his arm away with her fist, catching him in the ribs with her elbow in one quick movement. Sandor swore and clutched his side, but continued to stomp towards her. The girl broke into a run and the Hound pursued with a frustrated growl.<p>

He caught her just as she made it into a long, narrow archway leading and threw her against the wall. The girl cried out as her head connected with the stone wall. Sandor held her arms, pinning her firmly with little effort.

"What gives you the right to judge me? Eh!" He shook her violently. "You think you know what it is to kill a man? What did I do that makes you _so certain _that you can cast your judgement so freely."

"Don't tell me you don't recognise me!" She shouted back.

"I DON'T!" He bellowed. The woman jumped and turned her eyes away. Seeing her recoil only made him angrier. "_LOOK AT ME YOU BITCH!"_

She looked at him, and something in her eyes made him freeze. Silently, the woman leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. Sandor just stood there, rooted to the spot by what he thought he had seen. She shook her head.

"You really don't remember…"

Sandor watched helplessly as she walked away. He knew what he had observed, but it was _not possible_. She was dead. And this girl looked nothing like her. Yet somehow she _was _her. He fell against the wall as a wave of light-headedness caught him. As his breathing slowed, so too did his mind. _It was a dream_. He told himself. _The Hound is trying to trick me._

* * *

><p>Sandor was wandering through a dark, tangled forest. The canopy overhead was so dense that he could not tell if it were day or night. He held his sword before him, his breath rattled through the snout of his helm. Beside him he could hear a sharp snuffling issuing from the enormous canine that trotted alongside him. Wreathed in shadow, Sandor could see nought but the yellow glow of the beast's eyes as they searched the blackness ahead.<p>

Suddenly, the creature let out a booming bay and leaped forward. Sandor took after him, struggling to keep up with his companion. The Hound gnashed his teeth and barked, salve dripping from his open jaws. A blacker shade of black shot out from amongst the trees, skidding to a halt with a shrieking neigh in front of them. The horse's eyes glowed with a pale white light. It kicked at the Hound as he danced around its legs, snapping and snarling in between hyena-like giggles. The rider fell upon Sandor, leaving her horse to fend for himself. The light in her blue eyes was like a flash of lightning, paralyzing and hindering his every move. She smashed his shield with a single stroke. When he lifted his blade in retaliation, she knocked it clean out of his hand. Blow after blow, she overpowered him, denting his breastplate, jabbing through his greaves and piercing his pauldrons. Yet her blade never scathed him. At last, in one fell stroke, her blade cleft his dog's helm. As it fell to the ground, Sandor saw the Hound pounce. He tackled their assailant to the ground and sank his long fangs into her shoulder. The woman raised her sword and cut the monster's head off, but not in time to save herself; she sank to the ground, dead. The Hound's head rolled a few feet before coming to rest beside Sandor. He looked into its glazed eyes, which still retained a golden sheen, and wanted to believe it was dead, but a faint thumping told him that somewhere in that cavernous chest, the Hound's heart still beat.

_Thump thump thump_

_Thump thump thump_

_Thump thump thump_

* * *

><p>Sandor woke to a heavy pounding at his door. He grumbled at whomever had decided to wake him in the dead of night, while whispering heartfelt prayers of thanks. He always found it hard to free himself from such dreams. Usually, only an interruption pulled him out of them. He slouched over to the door and eased it open in an attempt to keep its old hinges quiet.<p>

It was her.

"What do you want now?" He groaned.

The woman pushed her way past him. "I've come to a decision."

"Oh have you?" Sandor replied sarcastically. "You've decided what you're going to accuse me of? Or you've decided to finally fuck off and leave me alone?"

"Neither."

"Lucky me." He huffed.

"You need to know who I am." Her voice shook. "Even if you won't remember."

"I probably won't, you know." He sneered. "Not to put you down, but if I don't remember you already you probably weren't particularly significant."

"Nonetheless, this is more for my sake than yours."

He folded his arms and scowled, uncomfortable with the whole affair. "Go on then, out with it."

The girl lifted her hands to her face. At first Sandor thought she had buried her face in her hands to cry, but then something strange happened. Carefully, somehow, she slid her fingers delicately under her skin, peeling it forward all along her cheeks and neck before reaching around and fumbling at the back of her neck. Once all the edges were free, she lowered her head and pulled the flesh forward from the back of her scalp, all the way to her collarbone. Sandor's stomach lurched as he witnessed a woman pull her own face off, but stood, fixated, watching the whole process in disgusted awe.

With a flick of her wrist, the woman threw her mask aside and raised her head to reveal what lay beneath. Sandor's jaw fell open as he looked into a face he had tried to forget. She was a few years older, but she seemed more beautiful than he ever remembered. Her eyes seemed bluer, shot with a violet tinge that flickered across them in the light from his fire. Her hair was the deepest, lushest red he could ever imagine, held tight against her head in order to conceal it beneath the mask. Her skin was ivory, and her weary smile the shadow of that which had once warmed his frozen heart.

He backed away, stunned, and sank dazedly onto the edge of the bed. "You… you…"

"Sandor let me explain."

"You're dead!"

"What? No!" She frowned. "Evidently not."

"But they said you were dead!"

"They said _you _were dead!" She bit her lip. "Sandor, why didn't you come?"

"You were gone!"

"No! Never!" She shook her head. "I left, but I came back, just like I said I would. You weren't there!"

He stared at her blankly.

"Sandor!" She knelt in front of him "I went back to Braavos, just like I said I would. I waited there for five years, in the house of the Faceless Men.I counted down the days to my return. Then, when I returned to Westeros, I waited for you in the Saltpans, but you never came for me. I took Nisha and I rode to King's Landing, but the people there said that the Hound had turned craven and fled the city during the Blackwater. I went to the Saltpans again, but you weren't there. The people said you were headed to Riverrun, so I went to Riverrun. You weren't there, but someone told me you had gone north, to the Wall. I hardly believed it, but I went after you. I found the Night's Watch overcome by Wildling attacks, but not one of them knew anything about you. So I came back here, and the villagers told me horrible things about the Butcher of the Saltpans. Then I found the mound, with the Hound's head on top of it, all rusted and overgrown with weeds, and I knew you were dead. But then I ran into those thugs, the ones that chased me halfway across the ford, and I came here… And here _you_ are…."

"Rassa."He said finally.

"Yes, Sandor." She answered, smiling. "I came all this way to find you, and this is how I find you."

His chest heaved violently, his face was flushed. Rassa thought he was going to cry.

"What are you doing here!"

"What? Sandor I – "

"GET OUT!" He roared. "I don't know what I've done to you, but it couldn't warrant this!"

"_Sandor!"_

"BEGONE WITH YOU!" Sandor lifted her by the scruff of the neck and threw her forward. "DEMON! WITCH! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE! OUT! DEVIL!"

He shoved her out the door and slammed it in her face.


End file.
